The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

she and Thia had gotten along so well, not only working but also living in close quarters, had been both a surprise and relief. To Thia, anyway. Lettie hadn’t seemed anything but delighted from the moment her grandniece had arrived, as if she’d expected them—veritable strangers aside from a few childhood visits and holiday phone calls—to have nothing short of a grand time.

      “Ms. McDaniel?” Stefanie’s tentative voice came through the door.

      Thia bit back a groan. Nothing made her feel older than her thirty-two years than the unfailing formality of her great-aunt’s clerks. “Come in,” she called and, as Stefanie entered, gave it one last try. “Please, as I’ve told you before, call me Th—”

      “Ms. McDaniel,” the girl wailed, ignoring her in the rush up to the desk. “People are still going through the decks. Look. Look at all this.” She held out several packs of Tarot cards and a large wad of cellophane.

      Lettie had hired Thia to set up Eclectica’s online sales branch, but in her absence, Thia had become more and more acquainted with the particular workings of the “brick and mortar” store itself. This was one of the odder ones. And, unfortunately, it came up a lot.

      She indicated a relatively clutter-free spot on the desk. “Go ahead and set them down. I’ll add them to the list.”

      Stefanie set the opened cartons down, then laid the cellophane on top. Immediately, the wrinkled plastic began to shift and expand with soft, foreboding crinkles. “I guess the sample book isn’t working, huh?”

      “No,” Thia said. “Maybe the stock should be kept in one of the—”

      “Ms. McDaniel, um, since it’s not too busy right now, I was thinking it would be a good time to, you know, um… smudge.” Stefanie’s eyes were alight with fanaticism. Or addiction. To sage smoke? Was it possible?

      “I think we’re still good from yesterday, thank you,” Thia said carefully. “But if you need something to do, I think Abby mentioned a lot of pocket stones have found their way into the polished stone display.”

      “Pocket stones.” Stefanie frowned. “Those the ones with words put into them?”

      “Engraved. Yes.” For reasons that remained a mystery, the silly things were one of the website’s best-sellers.

      “You’re sure you don’t want me to smudge?”

      Thia hadn’t felt so sure of anything in days. She shook her head, called up a phrase she’d heard Lettie use. “Energies are good right now.” Whatever that meant.

      “Oh. Okay, Ms. McDaniel. I’ll do the stones thing, then.” Shoulders slumped in disappointment, the clerk made her way out of the room.

      “Thank you.” Thia kept a straight face until the door clicked shut. It wasn’t nice to find amusement in another’s misery, but there it was.

      Her grin faded when she caught sight of the ruined Tarot cards. She’d have to count to be sure, but she figured there were now more packs in Lettie’s office than out in the store.

      She stuffed the cellophane into the trash, then made a quick list of the particular sets. Dragon Tarot. Renaissance. Fairy Oracle. Two Ryder Waite decks. Oh, come on—two? Thanks to movies and TV, even she knew what those cards looked like.

      She dropped the lot into the drawer to join the rest awaiting pickup by Mrs. Sharpe’s art students for use in their end-of-term collages.

      Maybe they could take some of the catalogs too, if Lettie wouldn’t mind. Thinking to ask her later, Thia pulled a new roll of tape from the supply drawer and returned to prepping the day’s shipment.

      An esoteric tradition of the Tarot was costing the store some serious money. Thia wasn’t sure she’d make the same decision Lettie had. Sure, if it were true that previously handled cards could be dangerous to the new owner, then of course customer safety came first. But it seemed to her nothing more than superstition.

      She tore off a strip of tape, laid it over the mailing label on a box destined for Maryland. Inside were a whimsical ceramic toad and a wand made by a local artist, if she remembered correctly. Amazing to think she was in a small Oregon town and doing business with—she read the label—Megan Wilcox, someone who had likely never set foot inside the store. Although, true enough, the Shakespeare Festival attracted visitors from all over the world. The University didn’t do too badly, either. Thia made a mental note to add a “how did you find us” question to the website. Maybe all these online orders were from people who’d been by.

      Tallying the boxes—seventeen, many of them packed with multiple items—she did a final check to make sure they were securely sealed, the labels protected. Then she began forming a stack she might conceivably carry the three blocks to the post office.

      When she got back, she’d talk with Abby about moving whatever Tarot decks remained out for sale into one of the locked cases…assuming room could be made. Not in one of the herb cabinets, obviously, since those were currently overstocked in anticipation of a pre-Samhain rush. Maybe they could find a place for the decks at the counter, leave the sample book as it was.

      Her mind on the various problems associated with that, She shrugged into her jacket, took up the unwieldy tower of boxes, and crept out of the office. The store outside was bustling with midday shoppers. Narrow pathways, over-flowing displays―this might prove to be the biggest challenge of her day. She shuffled along, alert for any sign of impending doom. She should make two trips, she knew that. Unfortunately, she also knew she preferred making one difficult journey to repeating several easy ones.

      Anyway, this would be fine. If she craned her head just so and looked out of the corner of her right eye, she could see enough of the ground ahead to avoid obstacles…as long as she took really small steps. Which she was. Inching her way around the stairs, she plastered a humble expression on her face and apologized to the many people she heard move out of her way. “Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you. Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you.”

      “Of course, dear,” came a soft, accented voice.

      Lettie?

      Thia stopped, shocked speechless, and maneuvered her way around to face her great-aunt.

      No one was there.

      “Isn’t this lovely?”

      The same voice, more distant and to the left. Thia turned, saw an elderly woman holding up a gilded Celtic cross. The man to whom she was speaking, her husband probably, nodded appreciatively. Thia had never seen either of them before. She let out a pent-up breath and resumed her shuffling walk.

      She’d been so sure it was Lettie. Why? The slight British accent combined with the voice’s obvious age? Lettie wasn’t due back for another two weeks.

      Thia moved past the main counter where, from the sound of things, a new roll of receipt tape was being loaded into the cash register. The plastic lid closed with more force than necessary—and she knew immediately who was trying to perform what was typically a simple task. Somehow, when Abby was involved, it never turned out that way.

      “I’m going to take my lunch after I get done with this,” Thia said, though she figured any fool could tell she was off on her routine trip to the post office—and Abby, Eclectica’s manager, was no fool. She was also, despite a couple of early disagreements over the online sales process, someone Thia had come to consider a friend.

      “Sure thing,” Abby acknowledged, then swore as the clattering of the register stopped short. Paper jam. “I did not say you could bend, you stupid piece of—”

      “Watch your ‘negative energy,’” Thia warned lightly, thinking of Stefanie. “Don’t give her an excuse.”

      “Oh, hell—I mean, heck. I thought she was still on break.” Something (Abby’s hand, from the sound of it) slammed onto the register hard enough to make the cash drawer bell ding.

      Thia winced. “You